In Star Wars, everyone’s daddy is hot, famous or dead

Jordan Hamel

You set your app’s age range to boys
whose first franchise entry was The Phantom Menace, 
not A New Hope or Empire, or any 80s schlock
that reminds you of when you didn’t ache
for a body less leathered from nights under
forest moons. I am your faceless someone bored/
horny/mobile/available on a Tuesday afternoon/
your memory taking root inside tighter skin, unspoiled,
as the theatre dims, you dip your head. Did you forget 
a man cannot forget himself in darkness? Sure,
Skywalker isn’t the only thing rising in this matinee,
between soda-soaked pull-outs, liquid butter lips,
but I am still watching. I am a deeply serious person.
If you speak during our time together, I will shush you.
I will get you banned from every cinema within fifty miles.
I will hack your family’s streaming services
and lock every film except Episode II: Attack of the Clones.
You’ll be forced to watch it repeatedly, until you
start talking like Jar Jar Binks, until you see
how an open mouth can ruin a room, until you see
the age that light betrays. I am petty. I can't forgive 
small grievances, only great evils. I know myself,
you say, as the credits roll, you zip me up, call me
an Uber, call your wife, say, hey sweetheart, I’ll be home
for dinner. She’s trying out a new risotto recipe,
and, after all, a little risk is what keeps us young.